CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I fetched the school van keys from Mrs. McEntee and, when I rounded the corner to my classroom, found Kindra, Lorelei, and Brock crowded around a desk, heads bent together, engrossed in the task in front of them.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Kindra jumped. Something dropped and clattered off the desktop onto the floor. She scooped it up and handed it to me, then looked down at her shoes.
Crystal-clear stones glinted around the shimmering blue hearts. She waited patiently as I turned the pendant over in my hand, assessed its heft, tested the chain, and examined it for our answer. A hinge held two identical charms together. When I unfastened the clip on the unhinged side, it opened like a locket, and I found our numeric solution etched in script onto one of the backs.
“This is gorgeous. Where did you learn how to do this?”
Kindra shrugged. “We all have hidden talents, don’t we? The box with the stand is in the office.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to get going. I work at four.” She hefted her backpack onto her shoulder. “Have fun and let me know how it all turns out.” She waved and disappeared around the corner.
Then I oohed over the logbook. Lorelei and Brock finished the cover by burning the outline of small ocean waves, sea birds, a distant ship, and a fin-sporting marine creature. I ran my fingertip along the edge of the pages.
“Gold spray paint,” said Lorelei.
“Very effective.”
They glowed.
“I think the director is going to be thrilled.” I checked the time. “We need to be on the road soon.”
The air pressure changed as the door to the math commons opened and closed.
“Here come Carlee and Galen.” Lorelei wrapped the logbook in bubble wrap to safeguard in her backpack. Brock placed the pendant in a blue mesh bag, slid it alongside the logbook, and fitted the buckles.
The five of us traipsed through the quiet halls with happy feet, eager to share our new-found hobby.
The boys stopped in the office and hauled Kindra’s wooden box out the front doors to the circle drive and the school van. In her haste, Carlee slipped on the top step, tripped, and tumbled over her ankle. She cried out. Galen dropped his half of the carton and rushed up the flight.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. When Galen tried to lift her, she yelped.
He knelt next to her. “What can I do?” He looked as though he might cry with her.
“Lorelei, see if the nurse is still in house. Brock, run down to the athletic office. They always have ice in their freezer. Grab a bag. Galen, call Carlee’s dad.”
Galen stared at Carlee.
“Galen,” I said again.
He pulled out his phone and punched a key. “Dr. Bluestone? Galen.” He listened. “Carlee fell at school, and I think she’s going to need to have her ankle looked at.” He listened again. “I’ll have her at the front door.”
“Carlee,” he said gently. “Your dad’s coming. He’ll meet us here and take you to get your ankle looked at.”
She bit her bottom lip. She’d been known to argue on occasion but accepted what Galen told her without a peep.
With a door bang, Brock rushed out with an ice pack and Velcro strapping. He knelt in front of her.
“Well, Cinderella?” He elicited a tiny smile and Carlee sniffed.
“Be careful,” Galen warned.
“I’ve done this way too often,” Brock said, his head bent to the task at hand.
With a gentleness I didn’t see coming, he secured the ice with the strap. Brock and I helped her to her feet and Galen swept her into his arms and up to the vestibule. We followed to make sure she made it safely but there was no doubt Galen would make certain Carlee would be well taken care of.
I grabbed a chair and slid it near the door. Galen settled Carlee in it, keeping his eyes peeled on the drive-through. Lorelei glanced at her watch and whispered to Brock. He made a phone call while we waited.
CJ pulled in front of the double doors and jolted to a stop. He unfolded his long lean frame and bounded from the truck with only a trace of a limp. If I hadn’t known him, his fierceness would have frightened me.
CJ married his childhood sweetheart before they finished high school. He found his calling as a Navy SEAL. During his second year of deployment, the love of his life, Danica, died giving birth to his daughter, never having told him she was expecting. If it hadn’t been for his homemade engagement gift, a lapis lazuli pendant, he might have gone his whole life not knowing his daughter. CJ and Carlee met two months ago. Now CJ filled his time learning the ropes of parenting and Carlee relished building a life with her father. To my disappointment, he put all other relationships on hold for the time being. Not that we had a relationship, but he would make someone a great catch.
In addition to practicing veterinary medicine, CJ trained search-and-rescue dogs and worked greenhorn Maverick’s tail off. CJ occupied a throne in my heart and when Ronnie Christianson had accused him of murder, I’d worked my tail off to find the real killer.
I shook my head as he gently lifted Carlee from the plastic chair and whisked her out to his chariot as her father-knight in shining armor.
Galen looked lost.
Brock jostled his friend out of his reverie. “I changed our appointment to four fifteen. Are you coming?”
Galen nodded, dazed.
“Good. Then you can help me carry Kindra’s things.” He sighted down his pointer finger to Kindra’s contribution.
Galen and Brock finished loading the wooden stand and we piled into the school van. As the engine sputtered to life, Jane crashed through the front door, waving her gloved hand. Her quilted white coat flapped behind her like a pair of angel wings. She ripped open the passenger door, panting. “Do you have room for one more?”
“Get in,” I said.
Lorelei and Brock jabbered through every mile. They read the description aloud, asked for comments, and penciled in possible answers to questions the director might have. Jane complimented them on their ingenious puzzle and the intricate detail of the log cover, but when Brock showed her the necklace, her squeal nearly had me driving into the ditch.
“I love lockets. Who made this?” Jane asked.
“It’s Kindra’s masterpiece. Did you find the answer?” asked Galen, a smile edging onto the corner of his mouth as he awakened to her excitement.
It opened under her gentle ministrations, and she cooed. “This is ingenious. What’s the question again?”
“How many bodies were recovered from the Titanic?” Galen said.
“Over fifteen hundred souls perished, and they only brought back three hundred thirty-four bodies?”
Galen focused on Jane. “No,” he said slowly. “They recovered three hundred thirty-four bodies but transported only two hundred nine to Halifax. The other casualties were too badly damaged or decomposed and they ran out of resources, so they were buried at sea. Fifty-nine bodies were claimed and buried somewhere other than Halifax. They think they’ve identified all but forty and using DNA, they’re still checking. First class victims had a better chance of being retrieved and buried on land than second and third class. Inequality lingered even in death.”
Jane sighed. As a history major and Titanic buff, she probably knew all of that as well as how many jars of strawberry preserves they carted on the inaugural crossing, the scent of the hand soap in first-class, and the paint color of the walls in Captain Smith’s private quarters.
“Did you talk to Ronnie?” I asked.
“Tell you later,” Jane said through gritted teeth.
We arrived with four minutes to spare, and our van was the only vehicle in the parking lot. The students carried the handheld GPS units, and Jane and I used our smart phones. We entered the coordinates Brock dictated and, fortunately, they all pointed us in the same direction. Then he read what they would post for this geocache.
“So far, so good,” Brock said. We stood in front of a wooden pamphlet rack. He stamped the snow from his boots. “Ms. Mackey, your hint is Seven Two.”
Jane looked around. There weren’t too many choices. She counted seven columns to the right and two rows down in the information rack and grabbed a trifold labeled Honour and Glory. So far, so good.
We tramped up the replicated gangplank, through a mural of waving well-wishers, amid a recording of a bustling crowd, a busy pier, and boat whistles, and landed in front of an unmanned ticket booth. Galen tugged on the door to the exhibit.
“It’s locked.”
Brock pulled out his phone. While he waited for an answer, Lorelei explained the cipher and how to use text to glean the position of the remaining parts of our multicache.
“Our ordered triples indicate the paragraph, word, and letter. When we stand in front of the timepiece, you’ll figure it out.”
“No answer,” Brock said. He slid his phone into his pants pocket. “It’s four fifteen now. Can we give her a few minutes?”